


Three Stories to an Empty House

by hifunctioning



Series: Salvage [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, BAMF!John, BAMF!Sherlock, Gen, On the Run, Post Reichenbach, Reichenbach Feels, The Adventure of the Empty House
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-19 23:34:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 16,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/578860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hifunctioning/pseuds/hifunctioning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "One Way Out." Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock and John are being hunted across London by Moran. Told from the point of view of all three men.<br/>Pre-slash or Non-slash, depending on your worldview.</p><p>"Hypervigilance is nothing new. So if you wake up one day and discover someone is after you specifically, nothing changes much.</p><p>You see everything. Maybe you don't observe, but you see, you hear, you smell, your amygdala processes, and you act. When you're not moving, you are very, very still. You disappear. Everyone is a potential combatant, even more so than in Afghanistan, where uniforms at least meant something. Everything is a potential weapon. You have to sleep, but you sleep lightly, even though there's an overprotective insomniac lurking nearby. And if he's not there when you wake up, you know, even before you open your eyes."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [This fic was Chapters 2-13 of my fic "One Way Out" as published on FFN. I decided I like them better as a separate story.]

He's on the roof with Moriarty again, but it's dark. Either it's a moonless night with no city lights, or this building is somehow inside an enormous, pitch-black room. It feels that way; the air is closed and still. He knows what's about to happen but he makes no attempt to stop it. "Bless you," Moriarty says, grabs Sherlock's hand, and opens his mouth wide. And then the gun is in John's mouth, there's no sound at all, just brains and blood and bits of skull exploding behind him and Sherlock is reaching around him, trying to close the hole, wrapping his arms around John's head and pulling him to his chest, to the ground, but he knows as he falls that he's failed, the hole is much much much too big.

Sherlock wakes with a start. He's sweaty and John is leaning over him with a look that suggests he might have been making noises. Humiliating. He rolls over on his side, away from John, and closes his eyes although that is the last thing he wants to do. The insides of his eyelids are black and painted with the blood and brains and skull fragments of John Watson.

"Sherlock?" John's voice is calm and only a little hesitant. "Nightmare?"

Sherlock snorts. He doesn't have nightmares. Or didn't, until he jumped off a building. Since then, it's been a veritable festival of horror. No recurring nightmares; thank god for small blessings. He suspects that the combination of uncontrollable terror rising from the depths of his psyche  _plus monotony_ would be enough to drive him over the edge. No, his subconscious is just as creative as his conscious, offering him something new every time he allows himself to sink into REM sleep. They're not all masterpieces. This one, for instance. He knows he's tired because this one is so pedestrian. In contrast, consider the one he had Tuesday, where John's head did not explode at all, but oozed violin strings and spaghetti from the perfectly round hole in the back of his skull, and after Sherlock sat cross-legged on the rooftop and watched the corpse ooze for an interminable amount of time, John sat up and started eating the pasta with relish, until he finally looked up and grinned at Sherlock with pointed teeth. That was more original. Still, there's something to be said for a literal approach. The contents of John's head, flying out of his reach, probably exactly the way they really would only slower, is an image that Sherlock can't yet shake or handle. Without realizing it, he has clutched his arms to his chest, where John's dead body was last seen.

"Sherlock, it's ok," John is murmuring. "I mean, it's not. It's not bloody ok at all when it happens. But you're safe." He sounds just a little embarrassed to be saying those words, but he continues. "It makes you feel you're mad, doesn't it? It can be so real. It's like you can be more frightened in a dream than you ever would when you're awake. And that's alright. If you are. I'm here."

Sherlock is staring at the wall. The insides of his eyelids are still not a safe place to be. "What good does that do?" he asks in a hoarse voice. He doesn't care about the answer, it's really just that he wants John to keep talking.

"Oh. Um. I don't know for you, but for me, when I wake from a nightmare it's good… to see I'm not alone. For a long time, I was. Sometimes the waking was worse than the dream, then. But after I moved into Baker Street, I'd wake up and sometimes hear you playing violin or crashing about the flat, doing whatever mad thing you do in the middle of the night, and it was better. After a while, I felt better even if I didn't hear anything. I suppose because I'd got used to you. I knew you'd be there sooner or later." John makes a tiny, uncomfortable but conclusive  _hmph_ sound, like he feels he's said more than enough.

Sherlock wants him to keep talking. There's a part of him that wants him to talk about anything other than this, but also a part of him that desperately wants to be the center of John's attention at all times, and another part that doesn't care what he talks about as long as that calm voice keeps going. So that's two parts against one. "And then? After I left?"

"After? Ah. I thought we were done with that subject. Well, you know. I was alone. Again. Very. And the nightmares... well. They weren't any better, that's certain. And when I woke up, the silence was worse than it had been before. Before, silence was just silence, that was bad enough. After, silence meant you were dead."

Sherlock swallows. "I'm not dead."

"Yeah, I think that's pretty well-established now."

"I dreamed about you being dead. Just now."

John says nothing.

"Say something."

"Don't know what to say, Sherlock. I'm sorry."

"Anything. Just... talk. Really, about anything."

"That's really your area, isn't it? Prattling on incessantly. Not my forte."

"Honestly, John, you're making me repeat myself a third time, that can't be necessary. Anything. Really."

John starts talking about an abandoned lot where he and Harry used to play, says the abandoned flat where he and Sherlock are currently squatting has had him thinking about that place. He tells Sherlock about the stupid games they used to get up to, climbing contests and king of the mountain, building forts out of rubbish and lumber and pieces of fence and playing at war. Sherlock doesn't care in the slightest about the summer they found a lost puppy and tried to keep it there or the time John's friend stepped on a nail and got tetanus. He deletes the words the moment he hears them and retains only the solid, warm, earthiness of John's voice. He breathes deeply, slowly, and his eyes are open.

 

* * *

John is on the sidewalk in front of Bart's. The one directly in front of Bart's, the rectangle where he knows Sherlock will fall. He is absolutely certain he will be able to catch him. He is strong enough.

"Go ahead," he says into his radio. "I've got you, over." Then he returns the radio to its holster, adjusts his helmet and stretches out his arms.

The figure above him doesn't move. It's backlit by the sun so John can't see its face. It just stands there on the ledge, coat fluttering dramatically . "You look pretentious, not mysterious!" John yells. "Just jump already, I'm cold!" The figure doesn't even look down. And then, so slowly, he lifts up his arms like an angel, and takes one graceful step forward. John reaches up and is so focused, he almost doesn't notice the bullet. Until he does. The searing pain through his left shoulder is pulling him down and he thinks "I can still do this, I can, stand up for god's sake" but it's useless, he's down on one knee, he's clutching his shoulder against his will, he feels the blood pulsing over his hand, and he looks up and the body is falling, still falling, now he can see Sherlock's face and read terror all across it and the chasm in John's chest is the knowledge that there is absolutely nothing he can do.

There's a hand on his shoulder. He jerks away and sits up, full of adrenaline, ready to fight. It's just Sherlock, looking worried, which will never not be disconcerting. His shoulder is throbbing.

"You were talking," Sherlock says, almost accusatorily.

"Was I?" John tries to appear unconcerned, but he's surprised. "What did I say?"

"My name."

"Oh." Awkward. "You were falling. I couldn't catch you."

Sherlock looks away. "I assumed you dreamed about the war."

"I do. You introduced a new dimension, that's all."

"I see." Sherlock looks intensely uncomfortable.

"So… thanks for that. Wouldn't want to get bored, now would we?" John smiles. Weakly at first, then genuinely, because that's Sherlock in a nutshell, isn't it? Horror and agony over boredom. We should claim that as our motto and get shirts printed up.

"No, definitely not." Sherlock smiles back. "Glad I could help." He clears his throat. "Do they recur?"

"Do what now? Oh. Sometimes, yes. This one. This one I've had before."

"How dull. I never have the same one twice. But there's a technique called imagery rehearsal -"

"Yes, I know. My therapist had me try it. Doesn't work. However, I wished you back alive and that worked, so maybe I should concentrate on that technique."

Sherlock chuckles.

"Don't think I'll get back to sleep tonight," John says after a silence. The worst thing about that particular dream is not the bullet. It's knowing that he failed, that he could not be strong enough, not even close. Like a rock in his stomach, pulling him down through the ground, it stays with him for hours after he wakes. Days, sometimes. "You're not sleeping anyway, are you?"

"No." Sherlock settles back to the position he must have been in before he woke John up, sitting against the wall with his knees tucked up in front of him, his hands clasped over his knees. "Thinking."

"Would you mind thinking out loud?"

"As you know, I prefer to." And Sherlock begins his rhythmic muttering, a cascade of words that rise and fall and speed and slow like the world's longest and most erratic roller coaster. Only bits and pieces make sense, and even those aren't connected to anything that matters. John just sinks into the rich timbre of Sherlock's voice, dark like mahogany, like wine, like really good coffee, like a night that is soft and quiet and not full of danger, the sort of night that will never happen again. He lies on his side and watches Sherlock, who never minds being watched, and lets the words rumble across him until sunrise.

 

* * *

He's walking through Central London. He's been walking forever. London cannot possibly be this big. His boots have worn blisters into his feet and the straps of his field pack are digging painfully into his shoulders, but he never thinks of stopping. He's looking for something important. What, or who, exactly, is hard to remember. It's hovering just outside his mind, but he knows that if he keeps walking, he'll either find it or remember it. Sometimes the buildings quiver and melt away. As always, he's acutely aware of the slightest movement around him, so the moment the buildings start to fade, he notices. But it never seems to affect him, so he doesn't react, he just keeps walking. Sometimes the buildings lean in. That's worse. He's aware that they could fall on him and he doesn't have any viable escape routes. When they start to lean, his heart pounds in his chest and his senses sharpen, his finger strokes the trigger of his gun, but he keeps walking. There's nothing else he can do. Then suddenly, there's a loud POP and the buildings are just gone. Instead, all around him, above and below, is yawning blackness. Terror wells up from the pit of his stomach but before he can react, he feels a hand on his shoulder. He turns, and it's Jim, wearing an innocent smile and an impeccably tailored suit. "Baby," Jim coos, "don't be scared" and then suddenly his brown eyes flash yellow and he lunges forward with unsheathed claws.

Sebastian wakes up gripping his throat. His t-shirt is damp with sweat.

He groans and rolls out of bed. He stands for a while, staring at his reflection in the mirror and the city lights beyond it. Sirens and car horns and drunken yells occasionally sound off in the distance, but for the most part, London is calm.

He drops to the floor and starts doing push ups. Not counting, just pushing, letting the blood in his veins and the roar in his ears take over everything else. This has always been the best way to clear his brain. But there's Jim, sitting in the chair by the desk, watching him with laughter on his lips. Like that time Jim flounced over and sat on his back, just dropped all his weight on it mid push up, and Sebastian crashed to the floor yelling "What the FUCK!" and Jim just sat there, primly smiling and examining his cuticles until he was bored. And Sebastian let him, of course.

So he's thinking about Jim after all. Pull ups then, on the bar mounted in the bathroom doorway. It's strange, he thinks. You can't really miss someone who was never really there. In many ways, nothing has changed. Jim would disappear for days, weeks, months at a time, and then suddenly there would be a text with cryptic instructions, or he would simply show up at Sebastian's flat with a Cheshire grin, and Sebastian would let him in, every time. You don't say no to someone like that. And he was happy, actually, to take orders from a madman. The army had been no different, except that there everyone was pretending that the madman was sane. That dishonesty - that's what Sebastian couldn't stand. He hated that about Jim, too. You never knew with anything he said. He would say things just to try them on, just to see how they felt sliding out of his mouth, and there was no distinction at all for him between the truth and the lie. Sebastian never said anything about it because he knew Jim would take it as evidence of his ordinariness.

Sebastian knows he's not ordinary. He might not be a genius like Jim, but he is exceptional and always has been. Jim saw that.

When Jim was around, Sebastian basked in his glow. When Jim was gone, Sebastian gave off his own light. Now Jim is gone and not coming back and that's just as well. He was never really here even when he was here, Sebastian thinks, because this world can't fully contain a man like that.

Sebastian flops back onto his bed. A man like himself can do fine in this world, however. Ordinary enough to breathe the air. Extraordinary enough to shine, if he wants to.

He's lived in Hong Kong, Mexico City, Seoul, Rome, New York. London is just a town by comparison, small and very quiet. He listens to the soft thump of his own heart and stares at the ceiling until he hears the sounds of the city waking up.


	2. Chapter 2

John's too slow and it's irritating. There's so much research to be done and John can barely keep up. He also has to be watched all the time. It's bloody exhausting, and Sherlock has decided that bringing John along was a serious mistake. But on the other hand, what if he hadn't? Wouldn't he just be hanging around John's flat trying to keep an eye on him? Or would he have to trust Mycroft's surveillance? No, all things considered, better to keep him here, in reach, in sight.

"You can't go out alone," Sherlock says for the sixteenth time, grabbing John's arm. "It's not safe."

"Do not treat me like a child," John hisses, wrenching his arm away. "Bad enough that you lied to me, kept me in the dark for all that time. Now you want to tuck me in your coat like a baby chick? You know I can take care of myself. And I'll remind you that I have taken care of you more than the other way round. I am armed and well-trained and very pissed off. I will walk about the streets of London by myself."

Sherlock stands back and watches John storm out the door, and then tails him all night.

 

* * *

The abandoned flat is… well, it keeps out the rain. Most of the building is abandoned as well, situated on a block that the rest of London was glad to forget. There's a fire escape that empties out into a sad little alley. It's easy to not be seen here, and that's the point.

It's also easy to be cold. Sherlock has somehow procured camping gear of rather impressive quality, so they really could be worse off. And John knows, from the matter of fact way that Sherlock settles himself into a sleeping bag fully clothed and opens up a cold tin of beans that he's been living this way for some time. John also knows this is insane. That a single phone call to Mycroft could have them both in soft, clean beds, under downy comforters, in front of crackling fires, within minutes. But that would be Sherlock's call to make, and he hasn't made it.

There's insanity, which is to be expected, and there's danger, which John doesn't fully understand, and there's damp and cold, which he understands all too well, but every morning he wakes up grateful to be freezing his arse off with Sherlock instead of comfortably chocking to death on his own loneliness.

 

* * *

Sebastian stands on his balcony, looking out over the city. His hands rest in his pockets. Before Jim, he never would have worn a suit like this; he never would have worn a suit at all, voluntarily. But when Jim bought him the Westwood, he understood. It was power. Very simple, very familiar, very comfortable. He didn't realize how much he'd missed his old uniform, the snap of a salute and the click of heels when others responded to it. Even civilians. Especially civilians. Enlisted would stand up straighter; civilians would lower their heads just slightly, instinctively submissive. The Westwood, he now understood, was a uniform. And a much more flattering one at that, thanks to Jim's insistence on the very best tailoring money could by.

Jim picked out this tie, a deep navy that he said brought out Sebastian's eyes. And then he held his head and tried to lick his eyeballs.

"You try too hard, boss." Sebastian had said. "You don't have to go out of your way to look crazy, no one ever questions it." Jim had laughed, prompting Sebastian into a crooked smile. For Jim to laugh, actually laugh like a human because he genuinely thought something was funny, was a rare thing and Sebastian felt like he'd won a prize every time he made it happen.

He rolls his shoulders and checks the time on his mobile. Yes, it's time to actually get this thing started. If Jim were here, he'd probably put on a stupid song and try to get Sebastian to dance with him. Sebastian wonders if maybe he should have danced, just once. No. Definitely not. He makes a call.


	3. Chapter 3

John requires food regularly, multiple times a day. Sherlock understands that nothing could be more normal, but in spite of that fact – ok, fine, because of it – he finds it thoroughly exasperating. The need to eat regularly is enough of a nuisance when ensconced in the comfortable lifestyle of a professional bachelor on Baker Street. In the lifestyle of a hunted fugitive on the forgotten streets of London, it is intolerable. Why can't John see that, and change his habits accordingly? Sherlock has tried, very patiently, to explain it to him.

"I wasn't born like this, you know," Sherlock told him, narrowing his eyes very seriously.

John's eyes widened. "You weren't? Was it some kind of horrible experiment? Young Frankenstein?"

Sherlock sighed. "I mean about food. I used to eat like a normal person. When I was a child, I ate voraciously, in fact. It wasn't until I went away to uni that I realized what a terrible waste of time and energy food is."

"You know, most experts actually consider food to be a source of energy."

"Yes, John, funny. But the effort of procuring and preparing food is so involved and inefficient. It's a terrible distraction. So I learned how to live without it."

"How did you do that?"

"I was doing a lot of drugs then; that helped. But I also studied asceticism, particularly in the Jainist tradition. I determined exactly how many calories I needed in order to keep my body performing the necessary activities. I ate what I needed to and no more. And obviously since then I have continued to recalibrate that calculation as my body and lifestyle have changed. It's ridiculously simple, John, there's no reason you can't do the same thing, and I wish you would because your constant need for food both hinders and endangers us."

"I am not going to stop eating, Sherlock."

Stubborn bastard.

Sherlock sighs. And now John is insisting on going out there again to forage for food, scurrying about like a vacant little squirrel, to the shops, to the restaurants. It would at least be interesting if there were hunting involved. But here, Sherlock and John are the prey, and John's not safe on his own.

He's heading for the Tesco. He knows the money's running out. And this is one of the things about eating when you're hiding, you can't keep going to the same spots. So John's developed a very complicated system of shops and restaurants in concentric circles radiating from their squat, and alternates his routes in a pattern that would seem random if you weren't paying very close attention. Of course, Sherlock is paying attention, and he has to admit it's not entirely stupid. He's not displeased by the knowledge that the old John Watson, the pre-Sherlock John Watson, would never have come up with something like this. Then again, the old John Watson wouldn't have needed to.

This particular route lends itself well to rooftop surveillance, which is Sherlock's favorite kind, even after the mess in Tottenham. He hasn't figured out a viable way to monitor John inside the store, so he technically has to let him out of his sight for that long. But it seems more advisable to stay on the roof, where he has a view of both entrances. Anyone leaving the front or back will be seen and quickly apprehended. And now John is leaving the front, carrying a plastic bag in his left hand, his right hand tucked in his pocket where, Sherlock knows, it rests on a loaded Browning. The new John Watson, the post-Sherlock John Watson, lives in a war zone even at the Tesco and is always ready to fire. John takes a right at the corner, unaware of the shadow turning above him.

Sherlock follows along as John walks back toward the flat. "Toward" is a relative term, since he takes an intentionally circuitous route, going out of his way by several blocks in three different directions, doubling back occasionally, avoiding any terrain that can leave easy tracks. Sherlock knows the army doesn't teach these tactics to doctors. Sherlock takes a lot of credit. After all, he's fantastic, as John often reminds him, and surely anyone who spends as much time with him as John has will emerge a far more intelligent and competent person because of it. How could his brilliance not rub off on others? Even Lestrade grew a bit less dense. But still, Sherlock has to admit to himself that John was a soldier before he met him, probably even before he joined the army. At some point in his life it had become necessary, and he's a man who does things because they need to be done.

Sherlock hears it only a fraction of a second before John does, and they both turn in unison to identify the source. A woman screaming  _help._  Sherlock runs toward her without looking down because he knows John will be running too. John will be a hero, and the question is how Sherlock can get down there fast enough to ensure that he doesn't get killed in the process. There, that fire escape will work nicely. He's already flying down it when he realizes something's wrong.

John hasn't seen it yet. He's still running toward the screaming woman and the man standing behind her with one arm around her throat and the other hand between her legs. John is pulling out his gun and yelling  _stop,_ trying to make out how he can get a clear shot with the woman between them. But something's wrong. The stance of the two people, the rigidness of their legs, and where did they come from anyway? If they'd made any noise in their struggle before this, Sherlock would have heard it. He leaps the last few meters down from the fire escape, landing just as the woman hand moves toward the inside of her coat. He's got a gun in his own coat and it might be faster to shoot her, it certainly would be for John, but Sherlock has always trusted his own body more than a weapon. He just throws himself down the alley, slamming her into a wall with all the velocity and force he can command. He hears the gunshot, knows that the bullet has just whizzed behind his back as he barreled past, and feels a rush of relief just before hitting the wall.

 

* * *

"What the fuck!" John is less than eloquent. He's just killed a man, which might be fine, but he's not sure and he'd like more information, as well as a plan for the body. That part is not good, but not exceedingly confusing.

Confusing is Sherlock, picking himself up from a crumpled heap against a brick wall, and immediately stomping his foot on the throat of the woman he bodyslammed there.

Wasn't John rescuing that woman? Is Sherlock rescuing him? What the fuck is Sherlock doing here?

"What the fuck are you doing here, Sherlock?" No, wait. Not the most important question. "What are you doing to her?" That's better.

Sherlock is leaning against the wall with one arm, catching his breath but otherwise looking so casual you might forget there's a woman squirming and choking under his shoe. He reaches inside her coat and pulls out a strange-looking gun. "Disarming her," he says with a grin.

John approaches and takes the weapon, then frowns. "A tranquilizer gun?" 

"Evidently."

"But why?"

"Let's ask." Sherlock turns back to the woman and smiles that very disturbing smile with the curling lip. It's really not John's favorite.

"First question. Who's watching us right now?"

She widens her eyes and shakes her head. Sherlock sighs dramatically and looks around him. He sees no cameras; of course he looks for them constantly. He grinds his foot just slightly into her throat, at a place John knows will feel for a second like death. You learn certain things about the human body from being a doctor, certain things from being a soldier, certain things from being the only son of Jack Watson, and certain things from walking with Sherlock Holmes. The cumulative effect is formidable. The woman claws wordlessly at Sherlock's shoe, and he lifts it just enough.

"I can make this very slow and very quiet. Who's watching us right now?"

"No one," she whispers.

"Alright. We may need to come back to that, but let's move on for now. Second question. What's the purpose of all this?"

The woman is wisely not using her breath on words any more than strictly necessary. She points at John.

John notices Sherlock inhale sharply and then slowly bend over the woman like a long, black-feathered bird of prey, his eyes fierce and hungry. "For him?" he asks, and his voice is so menacing John feels the chill, even though he knows it's meant to protect him. "Why?"

She shrugs. Sherlock grinds against her throat again and her eyes bug in panic.

"Sherlock, careful," John warns. "You'll kill her."

"Yes," Sherlock muses. "I expect I will." John falls silent. It's not that he wants Sherlock to kill the woman, it's just that… well, this seems to be war.

"Not yet, though." Sherlock grins at her again. "I think we have quite a bit of time yet."

John is not at all sure about that. His eyes dart back and forth, waiting for movement at each end of the alley. He is acutely aware of the body at his feet. It's actually quite large. They're going to have a hell of a time moving it.

"What were you supposed to do with him?"

"Take him," the woman gasps.

"Take him  _where_ ," Sherlock asks impatiently.

"He knew." She waves a floppy hand in the direction of the dead man.

"And you didn't? Come now…" The woman chokes out, "Mobile."

"Oh?" Without moving his foot, he rummages around in her coat until he finds a phone, then clicks through it with a frown. "Not very popular, I see. Not a single number, not a single call. And who was going to send you your instructions? Who are you working for?"

The woman gasps for breath and says nothing.

"Oh please," Sherlock says, shaking his head condescendingly. "You're going to die anyway, you know that. Just tell me and get it over with." She says nothing. He begins to roll his foot across her throat slowly. Her arms jerk and her eyes bulge.

"Sherlock," John interrupts. "Stop, please stop."

Sherlock grimaces. "I am interrogating here, John, do you mind?"

"I do, sort of, mind, yes. You're torturing, is what you're doing, and I realize she meant me harm, but she wasn't going to kill me…"

"John, when did you get so squeamish? And what do you suppose she was going to do with your tranquilized body in the middle of the night? Throw you a surprise birthday party? Your birthday is in  _August_ , John."

"So it is."

"If you insist on having a debate about interrogation techniques and vigilantism, we can do that – I will abhor it, but I will humor you – later. But now is not the time. Do you mind?"

John sighs and shuts his eyes for a second. "Fine."

" _Thank you_." Only Sherlock could sound so put out by being asked nicely to reconsider torturing a woman to death. John runs his hand across his face and listens to Sherlock continue. "We were talking about your employer, I believe?"

"He's right," the woman gasps. "Not… killing… Not… me."

Sherlock growls through his teeth. "You're making me impatient. I am starting to think we should tranquilize you and take you some place where we can really have a  _long_ conversation."

The woman closes her eyes. John can see in that moment that she's given up.

"I'll ask you one last time before I get angry. Who sent you?"

"Moran," the woman gasps out, and Sherlock nods curtly, like it's exactly what he expected to hear.

"Good," he says. "But not enough. How about a first name?" The woman is silent. "A physical description." Nothing. "An accent… Identifying marks…." He rolls his foot again, slowly. " _Speak."_

"Cur…" Sherlock's eyes blaze as he leans down closer. "Cur…"

A siren. They hear it at the same time. Far away still, but coming closer. " _Sherlock!"_ John hisses.

"Yes, yes," Sherlock answers, but doesn't turn his head.

John knows if Sherlock were here alone he'd be doing something stupid –ignoring the sirens completely and continuing his interrogation, or dragging the woman somewhere much too close by – but with John, he won't risk it. John resents that fact, but he's not above using it.

" _Sherlock_ ," he urges, "come on! Get me out of here!"

Sherlock's head snaps up and his lip curls in anger. The woman has stopped talking anyway; her future is laid out before her as clear as day.

In one fluid motion, Sherlock reaches down, lifts her head up almost tenderly, and wraps one arm around her throat. He bends his elbow quickly, decisively, and John turns away. He's not stopping this, and that's something he might have to reckon with later. But he doesn't have to watch it. He hears her feet skittering across the pavement and the last choking breaths from her throat and closes his eyes.

His mother was Catholic. They didn't go to church much and he never believed. He's seen a lot of dead people, and he's never sure why sometimes he feels compelled to do this and sometimes he doesn't, but he feels it now. He makes the sign of the cross and quickly recites a prayer under his breath. Then he turns back around to see how he can help.

 

* * *

"Seb, baby," Jim whispered to him once. "When I'm gone, will you blow up the world for me?"

"No," Sebastian replied, lighting a cigarette. He had no idea what this "gone" was. Was Jim planning suicide? Was he going to disappear? Was he thinking about a specific hit? Was he just preparing for the abstract inevitable? There would be no point in asking.

"Why not?" Jim pouted, "Without me, what use could it possibly be?"

Sebastian chuckled. "I live here," he said.

Jim shook his head sadly. "I worry about you, pet." Sebastian knew nothing could be further from the truth. "You were so lost when I found you. I want to make sure you'll be alright when I'm not here to tell you who to kill."

"Don't worry, boss. I seem to do alright telling myself who to kill."

"Yes, but that's so  _booooooring!_ How do you stand it? Is that all you're going to do?"

"What's this about then? D'you want me to carry on your legacy or something?"

Jim smiled. "That's so  _cute_. I don't think you could. Just promise me you'll do something with it. For god's sake, Seb, please make it interesting." Jim threw up his hands and rolled his eyes. "Have some ambition. There's more than just killing, you know."

"I'm not clever. I play to my strengths."

"Of course you're not clever. But you're not just one of  _them_. You're more." In spite of himself, Sebastian felt a little flush of pride. "This world does not deserve you," Jim whispered, his breath hot in Sebastian's ear. Sebastian looked sideways at Jim, his cigarette dangling from his lips. He knew this was a low bar. Jim didn't think this world deserved much of anything. Still, he was a bit flattered to be set above it to any degree. He knew that was the point. "I think you could burn it to ashes if you wanted to."

"Not really my style," Sebastian answered dryly.

"No. You'd prefer to hunt them all down one by one?" Jim purred.

"I play to my strengths."

"Yes. So do I."

Sebastian jumped as teeth suddenly dug into his throat and nails scraped across his stomach. His cigarette fell from his mouth as he growled and twisted, but he let himself be dragged to the floor.


	4. Chapter 4

The siren is getting closer.

Sherlock drags the woman's body over next to the man's. He stands back, presses his fingertips against his lips, and takes in the scene, like an artist surveying a work in progress. The bullet through the man's forehead is far less than ideal; it's extremely unlikely that anyone, especially someone of her stature, being strangled from behind could do that. But it's not completely impossible and it's what he has to work with under the circumstances. Single bullet to the head – really, John is a good shot.

So, if he was strangling her, and she'd been able to squeeze off one incredibly lucky shot over her head and backwards with essentially her dying breath –  _god this is stupid, but they'll buy it –_  then his body would have landed back like  _this,_ and she would've crumpled right  _here._ Yes. That will have to do.

Sherlock impatiently holds out his empty hand in John's general direction. The Browning appears in it.

The siren is very close.

Sherlock uses a corner of his sleeve to thoroughly wipe the gun. Then he puts the dead man's fingerprints on it and finally sets it next to the dead woman's hand. He rearranges her fingers so that it seems to have just fallen from them. Finally, he takes both their wallets.

"Sherlock!" John sounds appalled. Sherlock looks up at him and shakes his head. This sensitivity is disappointing. Not what he expected.

"Data, John." He feels like he's talking to a child, and it comes through in his voice. "No time." He starts to run for the fire escape, knowing John will be right behind, but then stops. "The shopping."

John makes a strange noise in the back of his throat and runs back to pick up the bag he'd dropped when he heard the woman scream.

They both disappear up the fire escape and across the rooftops just as the police cars round the corner.

 

* * *

"You've killed people before. Without any sentiment." Sherlock's voice is as barren and cold as this room. It's the damp, stinking basement of an abandoned house because Sherlock has deemed the abandoned flat (which John had, perversely enough, started to think of as  _home)_  no longer safe.

"Yes. But only when they were trying to kill me. Or you. Or my troop. Not up close. Not slowly. Not like that." John sits on the floor, leaning against the wall, the shopping bag between his feet. He's not hungry anymore.

"Then you're a coward."

By the time he fully processes what he's heard, John realizes he's flown across the room and pinned Sherlock against the wall. "Say that again," he snarls, "say that word to me again."

Sherlock's lips twitch just slightly and John knows he is amused. He will kill this man someday, he's sure of it.

"John," Sherlock says calmly, "you are the bravest person I know. But a man who will inflict death from 20 meters yet refuses to look it in the face.. is a coward."

John backs off just a bit. It's not like he hasn't thought that himself. A cabbie who's murdered several people without blinking an eye is one thing. An anonymous, invisible Afghani is something else. And he's wondered, of course, who he's shot, who he's killed, who they thought they were shooting, if he would have been able to do it if he'd seen them close, as close as that woman in the alley tonight.

He lets go of Sherlock and scoots back to his former position.

"You've changed," he says weakly.

"I told you, I killed people during my hiatus."

"And tortured?"

"Some, yes, as needed."

"You didn't mention that part."

"It wasn't relevant."

"It is now."

"Yes."

John looks up from his hands and sees Sherlock worrying his bottom lip.

"I'm not a psychopath," Sherlock adds.

John meets his eyes. "I know," he says.

"I don't enjoy it. It's a means to an end."

"Yes, I know. Except that… you sort of did, didn't you?"

"It's more effective if they think I enjoy it. It's an act."

"It's very convincing. Only an act, are you sure?"

"Well, and I enjoy winning," Sherlock replies with a frown. "Don't you?"

"I do." John stops and considers this for a moment. "I really do."

"I know. Also…" Sherlock clears his throat and taps his fingers together. "In her case, I might have had some extra enthusiasm. She was going to hurt you. As I've told you, I'm not letting that happen."

John doesn't want to admit this, but if he caught someone who posed a real and immediate danger to Sherlock, he would feel some extra enthusiasm too. Does that make it ok? He used to have a firm grasp on "ok" but now he's not at all sure what that means or how it's relevant to his life. "What was she going to do?"

"I don't know." John feels a twinge of sympathy; it's ridiculous but he imagines Sherlock feels physical pain every time he has to say that. "I suppose Moran wanted information out of you, or he was going to use you as bait to catch me. I'm hoping he'll tell me himself." He reaches into his coat pocket, pulls out the phone he took from the dead woman, and flips it in the air.

"The trap…" John shakes his head. "I ran right into it. Literally. Right bloody into their waiting arms. If you hadn't been there… Sherlock, how long have you been tailing me?"

"Well, you see what would happen if I wasn't."

"Right." John wants to be furious about this, he is not a helpless kitten and resents being treated as such, but then again, he almost ran directly into a tranquilizer gun just hours ago. "I am an idiot."

"Yes, of course," Sherlock agrees. "But also an amazing shot. You hit that man in the forehead, while running, just after I cleared. Quite incredible. I can't shoot like that."

In spite of himself, John beams. Sherlock complimenting him on a talent he himself lacks. Well, that's notable.

"So as I've argued before, we make a good team. We compliment one another."

"Excuse me, Sherlock, I believe  _I've_  argued that before. Strenuously. Your position has been more along the lines of 'Alone protects me' and 'Stay away, I'm a sociopath.'"

"But I've also advanced the teamwork argument. My brains, your gun…"

"No. You haven't. That was all me."

"No, I  _have_ , John. It's not my fault if you weren't listening."

"Oh, I listen. I listen to you till my ears bleed and believe me, if I heard you agreeing with me for a change, I would remember."

"Yes, because your ideas are usually bloody awful and stupid, which is how I know this argument is mine…"

The bickering fills the dank basement, long enough to settle into each dark corner so that by the time they wind down, it sort of feels like home.

They don't have their camping gear. They don't have anything, and it's very cold. Sherlock lies down, holds his coat open with one arm, and says, matter-of-factly, "Here."

John knows he should protest but Sherlock is obviously right about this one. He grumbles incoherently, mostly to keep up appearances, and crawls into Sherlock's arms. He would have thought Sherlock would be all hard angles and lines and bones, but it's surprisingly comfortable. Wool envelopes them both, trapping in their body heat. He wishes for a dreamless night, for both of them.

 

* * *

Sebastian takes off his jacket, folds it carefully, and drapes it across his chair. He's disappointed. No use in pretending otherwise. He really had hoped tonight would turn out differently. But he's not exactly surprised either. The objectives of tonight's operation were, in order of importance:

1\. A test: How closely does Sherlock Holmes guard John Watson?

2\. A shot across the bow.

3\. The kidnapping of Watson himself, only if possible. It was unrealistic to hope that it would be that easy.

But the first objective has been met, and the answer is "extremely closely." That poses additional challenges as well as additional opportunities.

The second objective has been met, so it's in motion now.

And the third objective is now the only objective.

It's funny. Sebastian's first impulse, when he realized Sherlock Holmes was alive, was to kill him. That was just simple mathematics. He had to stop and think and remember Jim's counsel before he began to see the myriad possibilities.

He remembers Jim, long before that, leaning his chin on his hands on top of Sebastian's chest, smiling in a way that suggested no good for anyone.

"Baby," he asked languidly, "have you ever hurt someone…  _really_  hurt someone… just for the sheer joy of it?"

"No," Sebastian answered. He was never one for theatrics. He liked to get the job done.

"I  _knew_  it," Jim said, rolling his eyes. " _Ugh_ , Seb, you are  _such_  a stick in the mud! It's always work work work with you. Come  _on!_ " He jumped up and started looking around for his pants. "Let's go have some  _fun!_ "

And they did. God, what a night. Sebastian really had no idea anything could be so much fun.

He'll never have Jim's flair for it, he doesn't have the creativity or the ingenuity, but he does have the attention to detail and, he's discovered, a deep appreciation for pain.

He has never had another teacher like Jim Moriarty, and he never will again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Cur.**

Names: Curt, Curtis, Kirk, Kirby, Kern, Kermit, Kura, Kuri, Kuro, Kuron.

Descriptors: Curly, Curt, Curvaceous, Kurdish, Kirsome, Cursed.

Random: Currency, Current, Currant, Curtsy, Curtain, Curb, Curmudgeon, Curry, Curfew, Kirghiztan, Kirkland, Kernel, Colonel.

**Colonel.**

_Of course._

Obvious, wasn't it? Because he has noticed the shift, though he couldn't quite put his finger on it. The people who knew Moran's name were less like customers who believed they were acting under their own free will and the invisible hand of the market, and more like obedient soldiers and anxious civilians. The web, or what's left of it, is now being run by a commanding officer.

The mobile in Sherlock's left hand buzzes. It's the one he took from the woman; he's been turning it over and over for hours, waiting. He shifts (careful not to disturb John, whose head is nestled on his right arm and has put it completely to sleep) so that he can see it better, and flips it open.

_You ruined my date._

It's from an undisclosed number, of course.

 _You should've invited me,_ Sherlock types.

_Jealous? Sorry, Three's a crowd._

_But it's me you want._

_Wrong._

A shiver crawls up Sherlock's spine.

_What do you want?_

_John Watson._

_What do you plan to do with him?_

_Dinner? A movie? Just let things unfold?_

_Your game will blow up in your face, just like it did for Moriarty._

_I'm not Moriarty. This isn't a game._

_What is it?_

_A hunt._

_You may find that you are the prey._

Sherlock goes back to turning the mobile in his long fingers. He knows very well who the prey is.

 

* * *

_I need a gun._  It's the first thought that comes to him as he opens his eyes to the cold morning air.

"I need a gun," he says out loud. Then he jumps, because he's discovered he is wrapped up in Sherlock's arms. Then he remembers, and relaxes a little bit, but only a little.

"Yes," Sherlock's deep voice rumbles behind John's head. "Take mine for now. You'll make better use of it anyway."

"Ok, but I need my own."

"We'll get you one."

"But not from Mycroft?"

"No."

John sighs. He really liked that gun. He sits up, stretches, and notices the mobile in Sherlock's hand.

"Any word from our friend?"

"Yes… He's disappointed that you couldn't join him last night."

"Ah. Did he mention what he planned to do with me?"

"He provided some information." John is not pleased with the indirect way Sherlock answered that question. "It's obvious that he's using you to get to me." Sherlock winces. "Again."

"Yes, alright, it's a pattern," John says hurriedly. Let's stop this train before it leaves the station, he thinks. "People are going to keep doing that, it's fine. Perfect team, remember? Your brain, my… gun, is it? Is that what I bring to the table? Except I don't have one. Next time can we please plant your gun on the bodies of our enemies?"

Sherlock chuckles, momentarily diverted. John sighs with relief.

"So we'll just have to find him before he finds us. What have you figured out?"

"He's a Colonel."

John's eyes widen.

Sherlock smirks. "He outranks you. Will you have to take orders from him instead of me?"

"Not funny."

Sherlock shrugs.

"And I don't take orders from you."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

"Sod off. What else do you have?"

"Moran is the 426th most popular surname in the UK. There are 13,733 of them. I previously narrowed that number down to 3,483 Morans that fall within the right age range. 517 of those are listed in or have a strong connection to London; 194 have definitely been in London at points when I believe our Moran was here, although that obviously doesn't rule out the possibility that other Morans could have been in London at those times too. I haven't found an overlap with Moriarty for any of them and it's unlikely that Moran has an official presence anyway. I still don't have a first name, a physical description, anything. Not even a voice. He learned that trick from Moriarty, using others as his voice."

"Do you think he's another Moriarty?"

"No. No, there will never be another Moriarty." Sherlock's voice sounds almost wistful. John doesn't try to hide the look of disgust on his face. Sherlock sees it, of course, and shrugs in response. "Moran is clever, but not brilliant. He has a sense of humor, but he's not having fun." There, again, that tinge of nostalgia in Sherlock's voice. "He's simply doing what he set out to do."

"Which is what?"

"Get to me through you, as I said." Sherlock frowns.

"But now you've got his rank," John reminds him.

"Yes! Which should make it child's play to winnow those 194 Morans down to one, provided that he's very, very stupid." He stretches and stands. "I need my laptop. We've got to swing by the flat."

"Thank god. I am not spending another night in your arms. And you're eating something today." Sherlock opens his mouth to protest, but John hardens his face in a way that he's found effective at least occasionally. It seems to work this time, as Sherlock pouts but shuts up. "You're eating, and that's the end of it."

 

* * *

"Right. Report as soon as you have visual." Sebastian hangs up his call and put his mobile back in his pocket.

Who could've guessed this quarry would be so hard to track? He seems so unassuming and ordinary, but he refuses to get caught and he's thrown the plan all off schedule. It's a bit of a nuisance, but also a bit of a pleasant surprise.

Dr. John Watson. No one, until he somehow attached himself to Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. No one, until he started poking and prodding at James Moriarty. James Moriarty. Someone unlike anyone else in the world.

Sebastian is not a sentimental man, but he likes to know what things are, their size and shape and value. He knows something rare when he sees it, and he knows enough to value what is truly unique. He doesn't expect much in return. He doesn't expect much, in general.

Revenge is for the sentimental. Jim is dead, and therefore doesn't give a rat's ass what Sebastian does. In the very unlikely event that Jim is enjoying an afterlife somewhere, he is certainly not thinking about Sebastian. He barely thought about Sebastian in this life. If anything, he is snickering over the delicious mess he made of Sherlock Holmes. Sebastian never really saw the humor in that, to be honest. It seemed like an awful lot of trouble. Jim called him pedestrian and banal but Sebastian just thought he was being pragmatic. There are so many ways to destroy a life. Why make it more elaborate than it needs to be?

For Jim, of course, that was a ludicrous question. Might as well ask a peacock why it needs tailfeathers.

Jim went out exactly the way he wanted to, and the most sentiment that Sebastian will allow himself is to be happy about that. He can only hope that he'll be allowed the same privilege.

So this is not about revenge at all. Nor is it about symmetry, or finishing what Jim started. Sebastian doesn't do much for others. It's for himself.

When he realized Sherlock Holmes was alive and hacking his way through the lower echelons of his network, Sebastian's first impulse was to kill him. Upon further reflection, he thought he'd reactivate the snipers. Clearly Sherlock had failed to hold up his end of the bargain, so rules of fair play dictated that the contract be carried out. But then he realized that would be dull.

Dull never used to bother him before. He was an army man, he appreciated routine and discipline, even if he was clear which side of the discipline he wanted to be on. After that, he was a free agent, he had self-discipline, plenty of work across four continents, and he saw fear reflected back at him wherever he went. It wasn't a bad life. But then Jim showed up – a dizzying explosion of madness and genius and shrapnel (literally, there was an explosion). Jim hired him for one job, and when it was done Sebastian had to stay and see what he would do next. Another job, and another, and Jim became his priority. He took other jobs while Jim was gone, but he'd drop everything when Jim came back, just to see what he would do.

And then Jim blew a hole through his head on top of St. Bart's.

And since then, there's been no color. Gaining control of Jim's network has been interesting, challenging even, but not amazing, not surprising. Killing people is work. Hurting people just isn't the same. Together – Jim's whirling, glittering insanity and Sebastian's cool, razor-sharp focus – they terrified so many people out of their minds. Of course Sebastian can be terrifying on his own, but no, it's not the same.

Sherlock Holmes, however, is unpredictable; at least, Jim had given no indication that he predicted his survival. Sherlock Holmes is interesting. Jim always thought so.

And then, Sebastian considered the most unlikely source of Sherlock Holmes' unpredictability. Dr. John Watson. So unassuming, so ordinary, but clearly exceptional to command Sherlock Holmes' attention and sacrifice. So unexpected.

Sebastian is not a philosopher. He doesn't spend a lot of time wondering what makes a man a man, or any of that rubbish. He does, however, spend a lot of time thinking about pain.

If Watson is truly exceptional, Sebastian wants to know. And then he wants to ask him, what is pain for a man like you? And then he'll find out.


	6. Chapter 6

The flat was clean, but they were in and out as quickly as possible. Now they're crouched in a doorway, sitting on their gear, blankets around their shoulders. They look like a couple of homeless men which, actually, they are. John faces out to the street to keep watch while Sherlock faces the other way so that passersby won't see his laptop. There's free wi-fi on this block.

Sherlock grunts.

"Share with the class, please," John says curtly.

"Colonel Sebastian Moran. Court-martialed in 2003 for assault of a fellow soldier. Then disappeared. Hm, the victim died from his wounds shortly thereafter." Sherlock falls silent.

"That's all?"

"As I said, he disappeared."

"No one can disappear from you."

Sherlock grits his teeth. John's faith is becoming annoying. He's stuck. He's been stuck, for a while now. None of his 194 London Morans are Colonels or Sebastians. Of course there was no way it was going to be that easy. He's starting to worry that this Colonel Sebastian Moran will not be found until he wants to be found, and that physically hurts.

"Sherlock…" That tone is not good. That's the I'm-going-to-say-something-you-don't-want-me-to-say tone. "Why aren't you calling Mycroft?"

"I do not need rescuing," Sherlock snaps.

"No, you certainly don't," John agrees. "But, I'm sorry, but I can't stop thinking this could be over much more quickly with the resources he could provide. So as I'm sitting here in a doorway, freezing and hungry and looking for mysterious shadowy persons who intend to steal me away and do unknown things to me, I'm wondering…. Is this just about your pride?"

"No." Stupid question, stupid John. There's no way Sherlock can trust Mycroft now. It's now been established that Mycroft is capable of monstrous lapses in judgment. That changes everything. "We're better off without him, believe me."

John sighs and hunches his shoulders.

Sherlock knows Mycroft texts John every day or two. He sees John read the messages, frown, bite the inside of his cheek, but he hasn't seen John reply. Yet. He narrows his eyes and leans into him. "And if you contact him behind my back..."

John jerks away and his eyes widen, like he's actually hurt. "I wouldn't do that," he says. He sounds angry. "I think you're being a childish git about this, but I would never do that." He turns back to face the street.

Sherlock isn't sure what he's done that was not good. He glowers at his laptop. Then he slams it shut, slips it into his bag, and rises in one long fluid motion. . "Let's go get you some food," he says, as if making a great sacrifice, and extends a hand to help John stand.

 

* * *

Hypervigilance is nothing new.

First, it's your father's fists. Later, your stepfather's. So you walk through your home on edge, smelling which rooms and doorways to avoid, predicting when to leave or not to come home at all, exchanging silent warnings with your sister, watching your mum carefully for any tidbits of information, choosing in a split second between strategies of appeasement, combat, or flight.

Outside is better but not much because you've got to keep an eye out for the other kids, to know when a game is about to become a battle, to hear the challenge creep into an bigger boy's voice, to tell the difference between taking a beating you need to take and suicide.

And then you're in an actual war and they are shooting at you and throwing bombs at you and there are days when it seems like the world will never stop shaking. There are officers and soldiers everywhere with desperation and destruction in their eyes, and you're grateful to the men in your life who taught you to see that look coming and step out of the way. There are hot, dusty streets, washed out with too much sun, where nothing stirs, and you learn to fear that particular silence more than anything. There's a hole in your shoulder, you never saw that bullet coming and you hate yourself for that, you swear it will never happen again.

And then you're running through the back alleys of London and you have no idea why, cold air tearing through your lungs as you try desperately to keep up with a madman, adrenaline rushing to the surface of your skin. All your senses are on full alert. Colors are brighter, sounds are more distinct. Run, climb, jump, shoot, fight. You do things that need to be done. You do them well.

So if you wake up one day and discover someone is after you specifically, nothing changes much.

You see everything. Maybe you don't  _observe_ , but you see, you hear, you smell, your amygdala processes, and you act. When you're not moving, you are very, very still. You disappear. Everyone is a potential combatant, even more so than in Afghanistan, where uniforms at least meant something. Everything is a potential weapon. You have to sleep, but you sleep lightly, even though there's an overprotective insomniac lurking nearby. And if he's not there when you wake up, you know, even before you open your eyes.

 

* * *

It's not that he's bad at it. To the contrary, he does the job efficiently and ruthlessly. He wears power well, always has. He's doesn't flaunt it, but he understands it's a muscle that must be constantly used, stretched, pushed to its limits, or it will atrophy.

But the truth is, he'd rather be on the ground. Jim got a rush out of being at the center of the web, watching all the monitors, making hundreds of people dance with a flick of his finger. Sebastian likes it too, but it's not what he was designed for.

Sebastian misses the hunt. Tracking his prey, ever closer, drawing it in… it's not the same through a mobile phone or a computer screen. He can't smell fear that way. He especially misses the moment when his body settles into itself and everything becomes so clear and easy, fixing his sight on the target, wrapping his finger around the smooth trigger, the whole world going still just for him, and that one simple motion that ends the hunt.

He's never been one to stay and gloat over the body. If it was his job to take care of it, he would, and if not, he'd be gone by the time it hit the ground. Death doesn't hold any deep meaning for him. It's just that he's so good at killing.

His mobile vibrates silently. He doesn't care for ringtones. Once, Jim reprogrammed his ringtones without telling him and was in Italy by the time it happened, so there Sebastian was, in the middle of an intense negotiation with a pair of assassins he'd subcontracted for an overseas job, when suddenly Justin Bieber was singing "Baby Baby" from his trousers. The fact that Sebastian had to kill both of the subcontractors only made Jim laugh harder when he heard about it.

"Go ahead, Ayres," Sebastian grunts.

"Have visual on target, sir. Started tailing them three minutes ago. Now in Peckham, in an alley parallel to Brookmill. Headed north toward the canal."

"Alert the team. Keep me informed. If possible, execute tonight."

"Yes sir."

Sebastian hangs up and lights a cigarette. He briefly considers heading down there himself, but he has to accept that his life has shifted. He's got a meeting tonight anyway – someone has to supervise the Mittal hostage situation – and he'll be able to monitor the mission closely over the phone. Ayres is a competent soldier and will get the job done.


	7. Chapter 7

The cat crouches down, twitches its tail slightly, and goes so still its black body almost melts into the shadows. On the other side of the rubbish bin, a rat skitters back and forth, seemingly oblivious. It disappears under the bin for a moment, then reappears off to the side. Some morsel has caught its attention, bringing it a little closer to the cat. Just close enough. And then, just a bit closer.

The cat strikes, uncoiling into one long shining black line. For a moment it seems like it has the rat under its paws but then somehow, the rodent is streaking away, its tail slipping between claws. The rat is gone.

Sherlock, leaning his forehead against the window, watches the cat stretch and stroll down the center of the street, its tail high and swaying slowly.

He steeples his fingers in front of his lips and frowns. This vacant warehouse in Peckham will work for tonight, but they're moving every day or two now. John must know, though Sherlock refuses to admit it: he doesn't have any idea what to do. Most of his contacts dried up while he was gone; he can't get any reliable information from the streets. He's almost out of money for bribes. He has no access to official sources; he's still dead and wanted on several felony charges. All he can do now is stand in the river, wait for bits of data to drift by, and hope that he's still clever enough to catch them when they do. It's agonizing. It's dangerous.

Maybe John is right. Sherlock chews on his bottom lip and turns away from the window to look at him, curled up under his sleeping bag, sleeping lightly. He only sleeps lightly now. Doesn't dream.

Maybe he should call Mycroft. It's not like he has a plethora of other options. It's not like Mycroft can make the situation much worse. Oh, but he can.

Still, John can't keep this up forever. Sherlock can go on for a good while longer, has been. But John needs real sleep, real food, a bed instead of cold hard floors that destroy his shoulder. Sherlock has noticed, of course, the way he carries it, protects it, winces and massages it when he thinks Sherlock's not looking. And at the moment, there's no end in sight. If nothing else, he can ask Mycroft for a decent gun.

Sherlock turns back to the window just in time to see a familiar black car glide up to the curb, as if it was manifested by his own thoughts. Most people would find that disconcerting, but most people haven't been dealing with the likes of Mycroft their entire lives. Sherlock wonders what that's like. A long leg wrapped in a sleek black knee-high boot emerges from the back seat, and then a statuesque young woman with olive skin and shining black hair swept up in a loose bun stands on the sidewalk, pulling an expensive wool wrap around her. She looks directly up at Sherlock and meets his eyes. Then she looks down, types something on her mobile, and drops it in the voluminous folds of her wrap. She looks up again and stares at Sherlock, expressionless. He's never seen her before. New assistant? He's been gone a long time, and she certainly fits the profile.

Sherlock glances back at John. Wake him? No, he needs this sleep, that much is obvious. It'll only be a second anyway. He'll ask to see Mycroft in person; if he's going to humiliate himself like this, might as well go all the way. Sherlock spins away from the window and heads down the stairs.

As he exits the building, the woman says, "Mr. Holmes," nods professionally, and opens the rear car door. Sherlock is about to say "No, I'm not going anywhere," when he sees it: her body tensing almost imperceptibly, and a flick of her eyelashes as she very intentionally does not look up at the second story of the building. He spins around and runs back into the building, taking the stairs three at a time, yelling  _"JOHN!"_

* * *

He's already cocking his gun and scooting back towards the wall before he's consciously registered that something is wrong. Something is wrong. Someone is here and it's not Sherlock. Two shapes, three. Shadows, with just enough form to aim and fire. The first shape stumbles, and now there's crossfire. John crawls across the floor – there's really nothing to shield him in this room, but at least he can get himself into a corner and out of the light. There's Sherlock's voice now, yelling up the stairs. John takes aim and fires again, and the first shape falls with a thump. For a split second, no one is shooting. Then suddenly something knocks him back into the wall, he expects to feel a flame tearing through his chest, but there's only a sting. He tries to grab for it and oh here's Sherlock finally, why is Sherlock running so slow, "Sherlock, where'd you –"

 

* * *

Sebastian stubs his cigarette with one quick motion. "Ayres, this is unacceptable."

"Yes sir," she replies. Although she's dressed like an elegant debutante, she is standing like a soldier, at parade rest with her head high.

"You had the target, and you lost him."

"Yes sir. We've swept the area completely, sir."

"He's disappeared without a trace."

"We haven't found him, sir."

"Blackwood is down."

"Yes sir."

"You're sure he's dead."

"Saw to it myself, sir."

"Tell me where it went wrong."

"I don't know, sir. Holmes came outside, turned around and ran back in."

"You're saying he took one look at you and knew something was wrong." He narrows his steel blue eyes. "Why would that be?"

"I don't know sir. It was all exactly as we discussed."

Sebastian steps forward, his face almost touching hers, and inhales deeply. This is what he means by smelling fear. "This is inexcusable. I do not tolerate incompetence."

"Yes sir."

"Until now, I considered you one of my more competent soldiers. Before tonight's stupidity, you've been consistently smart and efficient." He shakes his head, then turns back to raise an eyebrow. "Ayres, I'm going to give you a second chance.."

Her eyes widen just slightly. "Sir?"

"Unusually generous of me, wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes sir."

"I'm sure you understand this means that if you let me down a second time, your punishment will be twice as slow and twice as painful."

"Yes sir."

"But equally permanent."

"Yes sir."

"You'll be on the next mission, and there will be no mistakes. I'll be leading this one. If you want something done right, do it yourself. It's what I should have done in the first place. Go put on some real clothes, Ayres, you look ridiculous."

"Yes sir."


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock sits with his knees pressed up against his lips, his hands wrapped around his legs, watching John. He'll give it a couple more minutes, he thinks, and then he'll start exploring artificial methods of reviving him.

John starts to stir. Sherlock heaves a sigh of relief.

" _Fuck._ " John's voice is hoarse and slurred. "Sherlock?"

"I'm here." Sherlock casually rests his face on his hand so that John can't see his smile.

"Fuck, my head. What… um, what?"

"Tranquilizer dart to the chest."

"Oh.  _Oh._  Yeah, I… Three of them. I remember." John accepts the water bottle Sherlock's offered him and takes a long drink. "I think I got one. Did I? Where did you go?"

"You got him. The other two, and the woman on the street, all got away. I was outside." Sherlock's voice is clipped, he intends to get through this as quickly as possible. "I saw a black car, a woman, I thought it was Mycroft, and I went outside. It was a trap, of course. It was exceedingly stupid."

"Sherlock," John groans, his hand on his head. "It's not stupid. Anyone could've made that mistake."

" _Anyone?_ " Sherlock roars, and immediately regrets it, because John's face looks like his head has been split down the center with a steak knife. " _Anyone?_ " he whispers harshly, his eyes flaming. "I'm not  _anyone_. I didn't  _think_. It was foolhardy, impulsive, irresponsible…"

"Yeah, well, come to think of it that does sound like you." John is trying to sit up, and it looks like hard work. Sherlock quickly scoots over to sit next to him and positions his shoulder for him to lean on. "Anyway," John continues, "you came back in time."

"You got shot in the chest. If it was a bullet, you'd be dead."

"Well, it wasn't a bullet. Why is this Moran so obsessed with tranquilizers anyway?"

"Wants to make sure you get a good night's sleep? Mad he couldn't get a job at the zoo?" They both chuckle.

"No, really, Sherlock. I've been kidnapped before… Jesus, quite a few times now… Without needles and darts. When Moriarty got me, his people just used a gun."

"Moran must know that you'll die before you let that happen again."

They are both silent for a moment. A light rain patters outside.

"Well, that's true," John says finally. "Where are we?"

"An old culvert by the canal. We can't stay long; the local junkies frequent this spot, we'll have no peace here."

"Our stuff?"

"I only got the backpack with the laptops, your med kit, the gun." Only that and you, Sherlock thinks, remembering how he practically threw himself down the stairs with John's unconscious body draped across his back, scurried across the street and through the alleys, pushed John through a hole in a fence and literally rolled him down a slope, all the while inhaling adrenaline and exhaling fear.

"Sherlock. Thank you."

Sherlock snorts. "You see, this is why I didn't want you to come." He bites his lip and hopes John understands what he means.

"Yeah. What are we going to do?"

"I don't know." Sherlock looks out at the rain. "I was thinking of calling Mycroft last night, but I can't now. Maybe Moran knows enough about him to adequately mimic him, or maybe he has someone in Mycroft's circle. There's no way to find out without drawing attention to our location. If Mycroft is compromised, if Moran has access to his resources, that's a risk I can't afford."

"We."

"What?"

"A risk  _we_  can't afford."

"Oh. Yes." We. Still sharing a pair of handcuffs. Sherlock frowns. "He wants you," he announces, staring John down. "This operation was about you, not me. I was to be distracted, not captured. You're the prize."

John's eyes widen in surprise. "Why?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "Moriarty used you to control me. He didn't pay any attention to you beyond that. Moran… sees something different. He's not trying to control me, he's interested in hurting me. Through you. And also, I think, in hurting you."

The words settle over the two of them

"I know what to do," Sherlock says finally, his voice rumbling low. He looks at John out of the corner of his eyes. "You won't like it." He drops his head in his hands. "I can't find him, John. I've hit a brick wall." John exhales. Sherlock looks up to meet his eyes. Yes, he already knows. John has known he's lost and keeps following him anyway. John, who has never lost faith in him, knows he's failed and keeps faith anyway. Remarkable. Moron. Why did he ever move into Baker Street?

"Go on," John urges gently.

"Alright. I can't find him with my current resources. And he can afford to wait. This could go on for... for a very long time. But if he's only hunting you, not me, that frees me up as another hunter. I… _we_  put you someplace visible, someplace irresistible, to draw him out, and the hunter becomes the prey."

"Sherlock," John lowers his voice and narrows his eyes. "Are you saying you want to use me as  _bait?_  All that rubbish you said about protecting me and saving my life… did you mean any of that?"

Sherlock leans forward, inches away from John's face, grabs his arm and glowers down at him. "I meant every word," he answers, over-enunciating, eyes flashing. "I will protect you with my life, don't you  _ever_  doubt that."

They stare at each other, unblinking, for a long moment.

Finally Sherlock lets his hand fall. "But yes, I do intend to use you as bait."

 

* * *

"Self-centered, short-sighted,  _arrogant_  wanker. You propose to dangle me out in the breeze like a fresh piece of meat so that you, by yourself, can take down criminal mastermind Sebastian Moran and whatever bloody army he's brought along with him, just like that? And you expect me to just throw my life around because you think you can pull it off?"

"Not by myself; you'll be armed too. We need better guns. And he's not a criminal mastermind, I think he's more of a criminal general. But yes."

"And we'd have no backup of any kind?"

"Who would back us up, John?"

"Well, if not Mycroft…" John considers this. Even Lestrade is suspended and disgraced and there's no one at the Yard they can trust. "No one. Right." Suddenly he feels all of it deep in his gut, impossibly heavy, a mass of dark matter pulling him down. He's being hunted to the ground and there's really no one who can help. Except Sherlock. And there really is no one like Sherlock Holmes. He chuckles.

"John?"

He shakes his head and laughs.

"John?"

"Yeah, Sherlock, sod it all, I'm in." He grins. "I trust you, mate."

"You are? You do?" Sherlock is on the verge of regaining composure, but he seems genuinely surprised.

"I do, always have."

A slow smile unfolds across Sherlock's face. "You're completely insane," he says with a just a touch of admiration.

"You're just getting that now?" John giggles. He doesn't understand the expression of pain that twists across Sherlock's face in response.

 

* * *

Sebastian steps out of the shower and towels off. Torturing a prisoner, though it doesn't bring as much joy as it used to, is still a decent way to blow off steam and it helps him think. A workout and hot shower afterwards is just the thing.

He wraps the towel around his waist, goes into the bedroom, and sits at the desk next to the window. He picks up his phone and absentmindedly strokes his thumb across the screen. Sebastian's never been much of a conversationalist. The back and forth, for him, isn't about playing the game, dropping clues, or any of the frivolity Jim indulged in. It's just about fear.

_You crashed my party again. You're only prolonging the inevitable._

_Which is what?_

_John Watson's agonizing, unimaginable pain._

_Why?_

_Because I want it. I have plans…._

_You can't have him._

_Can and will. If you could stop me, you'd have found me by now._

_It's me you want._

_No, we've been over this._

_Calling your bluff. You're using him to get to me. How inefficient. Just take me._

Sebastian taps the phone against the desk thoughtfully. Well, this is interesting. Faking your death is one thing, but throwing yourself into the arms of your enemies is quite another. It's unlikely, to say the least.

_How noble. Calling your bluff. Midnight, Southwark Bridge._

_Not like that. You'll have to hunt me. But I've sent John off on his own._

_Left him defenseless in this big bad world? You wouldn't._

_Would and did. If you go after him I won't rescue him. If you go after me I promise to be much more interesting prey. Your boss thought so._

Then there's just one more message from Holmes.

_Come and play._

Sebastian lights a cigarette, rolls it between his thumb and forefinger, blows a long stream of smoke. Of course Holmes believes this is all about him. He couldn't possibly make sense of it otherwise, could he? And of course he believes that, given the option, any hunter would choose him over ordinary John Watson. The delusion of brilliance, dazzling even its owner to the point of blindness. This suits Sebastian fine. Watson is wide open.


	9. Chapter 9

The empty house on the other side of Baker Street was a lucky break. From here, Sherlock has a perfect vantage point of the whole block. There's no way into the building from the back; anyone looking for a shot at John will have to approach from the street. And if tranquilizer darts are still the weapon of choice, then it will have to happen in the flat.

Sherlock crouches down in front of the window and checks the sight on his sniper rifle. Thanks to the vestiges of his connections and a few straggling outstanding favors, they were able to transform the last of their money, both their laptops, and a handful of questionable promises into this rifle and a Sig Sauer P226R for John. Sherlock would have traded his coat for the look in John's eyes when he turned that gun in his hand. He makes a mental note to make sure John always has the latest army issue firearms, particularly those banned on British soil.

He waits for the light to come on in 221B. And then he'll wait some more. Moran's people might not even come tonight, but Sherlock thinks they will. If Moran believed his texts, he'll want to strike while the opportunity is open.

 

* * *

The last time John walked away from 221B Baker Street, he was not at all sure he would ever return. He figured eventually Mrs. Hudson would insist that he come and clean out the flat, and at that point he'd either do it, or else he'd tell her to just throw it all out, all of it, and be done with it. She never asked. He now suspects that's because Mycroft has been paying the rent.

He stands in front of 221A and raises his hand, then lets it drop at his side. It's embarrassing, but the truth is he's a horrible liar, just like Sherlock always says. It's not even that he's such a moral person. He really doesn't have a problem with lying to serve a greater purpose like, oh, for example, saving his life and restoring Sherlock's. It's just that he's so bad at it. Still, it's what needs to be done. He raises his hand again and knocks.

Mrs. Hudson opens the door and gasps. One hand flutters to her throat and the other reaches for him and pulls him inside. Her flat smells like it always has done, of tea and baking and herbal soothers, and it's bathed in that warm yellow light that he remembers so well.

"John," she says, "oh, John, it's so good to see you! How are you?"

"Hullo, Mrs. Hudson," he says fondly, "I've really missed you." And that part is not a lie. "I've come round… I'm so sorry for the interruption, I know I should've called first, but I thought I just needed to come straight here while I had my courage up. I've come to go through the things. In the flat. Like I said I would."

"Oh, John." She hugs him so tightly that for just a moment he feels confused, like he's dreamed all of this and actually Sherlock's still dead, he's still all alone, and Mrs. Hudson feels sorry for him because his heart is breaking all over her kitchen floor. His chest constricts like he might cry. Mrs. Hudson hears the hitch in his breathing and hugs him even tighter.

"Hrm." John makes a little noise in his throat and shakes his head. It's not a dream and he's got an ache in his pectoral muscle and a strange little mark from the tranquilizer dart to prove it. Sherlock is alive and just across the street. He suddenly realizes that when you count all the times John thought he was alone but was actually being followed by Sherlock, this is the farthest away he's been since the night he appeared in John's flat. It's uncomfortable. When this is all over, and they find their lives again, and John goes to work or to the pub, and Sherlock gallops around the city being Sherlock, they won't be within whispering distance of each other at all times. Not very often at all, in fact. That will take some getting used to.

He clears his throat. "I'm very sorry, Mrs. Hudson. I know I should've come ages ago."

"Oh don't be silly, dear. It's alright. This isn't easy. I've just been so worried about you."

"Thank you, I'm really doing fine."

"Are you?" She arches an eyebrow. "You look…"

"I know." He looks like hell on a bad day. He snuck into a gym earlier so he could at least take a shower, but he hasn't shaved in weeks. His clothes were disgusting and his pack got left behind in Peckham, so he stole some clothes from the locker room and they're too big, exaggerating how thin he's become. He looks truly terrible.

He squares his shoulders and straightens his back, trying for the expression of a brave soldier marching to his death. "Mrs. Hudson, I hate to ask you this, especially since I just came barging in without any warning, but I… This is going to be… difficult for me, and I… Well, I … I would really appreciate some privacy while I'm upstairs. Perhaps you could go sit with Mrs. Turner for a bit? I am so sorry to ask."

"John." He closes his eyes so he doesn't have to look at her face; her voice is bad enough, so full of warmth and sympathy. "Of course. Take as much time as you need. I was just thinking of going for a pint, actually. Let me just get my coat…" She pauses. "Are you sure you wouldn't like some company? I can be down here just in case. I'd hate to –"

"Please, no. I really would appreciate it."

"Of course."

"And Mrs. Hudson? When you come back, just please… No need to look in on me."

"I won't bother you, dear."

She lets John into 221B and leaves. He sighs with relief and climbs the stairs.

Memories are flooding back with each step (how could there be so many in really such a short time?) but there is no time for that now. John flicks on the light in the living room to signal Sherlock that he's arrived, and goes back downstairs to set up the trip wire.

 

* * *

"Sir. He's entered the flat, alone."

"Still no sign of Holmes?"

"Last report was at Bromley this morning, 0500. Watson's been on his own all day, sir."

"It's early yet. Stand by; we'll take up positions in fifty minutes, on my mark. Haque and McMann, with me. Ayres, you'll cover us. Lewis, east route. Chen, west. Clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"If Holmes shows up, shoot to kill."

"Yes, sir."

"We take Watson alive."

"Yes, sir."


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock rolls the stiffness out of his neck and repositions the rifle on his shoulder. His eyes flit up and down Baker Street but are drawn back again and again to the warm light in the windows of 221B. There were so many cold, wet, horrible nights alone when he fixated on the memory of the crackling fire, the decadent embrace of the Corbusier, and a glass of Cognac. There was one memory in particular, and Sherlock could never figure out what significant data it contained, why he hadn't deleted it, but he came back to it over and over: John sitting across from him with a hot toddy, mocking Sherlock's interviewing techniques earlier that day, needling him relentlessly until finally Sherlock gave in and threw his head back and laughed. It felt good. And why is that memory circling back again?

At this moment, he should be utterly focused, and he should be able to maintain that focus for as many hours as it takes. He returns to scanning up and down Baker Street, zeroing in on every slowing car, checking every pedestrian for signs of hidden weapons or too much interest in 221.

There's a faint click behind him and down the stairs. Sherlock freezes. It's the back door. He scoots silently away from the window, disappearing into the shadows. If he shoots the intruder, he'll alert the entire block to his presence. If he doesn't, he can only assume he'll be killed.

A figure dressed in black appears in the doorway. He recognizes her immediately, the woman from the car, the one he stupidly assumed to be Mycroft's assistant. She holds her gun in front of her as her eyes quickly take in the entire room, including the blind spots in the corners. Keeping her gun raised and close to her body, she creeps toward the window, and toward Sherlock. She's scanning the room and in the next instant she'll catch him in the corner of her eye. He propels himself forward, hurling into her side with his center of gravity low, throwing her off balance and knocking the gun out of her hand, his arm around her waist and his body fitting around hers like a puzzle, following it through to the floor, where they both land with a soft grunt.

He's sitting on her chest, pinning her arms with his knees, his hands on her throat. He has questions, and she can answer some of them. But John is across the street and there's no time.

"Kill me," she whispers. Her eyes are desperate. He puts one hand on her forehead, one on her chin, and jerks them clockwise.

Sherlock spins around and reaches the window just in time to see a black-clad body slipping through the door of 221B. In one fluid motion, he drops to the floor, sets the rifle on his shoulder, aims it through the open window at the disappearing leg of the figure below, and fires.

 

* * *

John has been puttering around the flat for at least an hour now, appearing to sort through things and pack them into boxes, but really looking for bugs, clearing sight lines and escape paths, and generally keeping visible.

It's surreal. Everything is essentially how they left it, down to the mannequin dangling from a noose in the doorway to the kitchen. John sneezes. There's a lot of dust, that's the main difference, but then the flat was never actually clean when they lived there.

He's intensely aware of his vulnerability. Everything depends on the Sig in his pocket and Sherlock's rifle across the street. He wonders if Mycroft is watching and whether that would be good or bad.

He hears a crack and freezes. That's the rifle. No answering fire. A muffled sound at the bottom of the stairs. He eases his gun out of his pocket and backs up slowly across the living room, crossing in front of the window so that Sherlock can see he's still standing.

In the kitchen, he backs himself into the corner between the two doors, holding the Sig up at the ready.

 

* * *

Sebastian spots the trip wire the moment he slips through the door. He smirks and gestures at Haque, in front of him, to make sure she sees it. He's about to turn around and point it out to McMann, bringing up the rear, when he hears a strangled gasp and a thump. McMann is down, holding his leg and biting his lip furiously to keep from screaming. He's been hamstrung. Probably Holmes, probably across the street, which probably means Ayres is down, and that's exactly what you get for giving someone a second chance after they fail you once. Sebastian reaches McMann in two long strides, grabs his head in both hands and snaps his neck. He pivots to face Haque, who's waiting at the base of the stairs, her face impassive. Sebastian jerks his chin and Haque nods, turns, and starts creeping up the staircase.

He's a fool. He realizes that. So quick to believe that Holmes would cut Watson loose. It made sense at the time, and that's all he can say for himself. He never pretended to be clever. But here they are, inside the building, and if they leave the way they came in Holmes will have his rifle trained on them. So there's no way to go but up. The mission is the same: capture John Watson. It's just that the hunt has become a bit more complicated. Sebastian concedes that Holmes was right; he has himself become the prey, for the moment at least. But he's still the hunter as well.


	11. Chapter 11

Such an incredibly stupid plan. Suicidal. Doomed to fail. But there was no other way out.

Sherlock concentrates on breathing, which is difficult work. Someone is in 221B and everything is telling him, screaming at him, that he should be there too. But someone needs to be here with a sniper rifle in case they succeed and carry John out that door. And there's no one else to do it. Such a laughably stupid plan. If only there had been another one.

He sees John crossing the living room and slipping into the kitchen, disappearing into the corner between the two doors. Good, that's a good defensive position. John has geography on his side, he knows this flat like the back of his hand and has spent the last hour rearranging furniture. He's a good shot. There have been approximately 20,000 total casualties in Afghanistan so far. Between 700 and 800 coalition troops, but not John. He served three and a half tours before his discharge, including two tours in the Helmand Province. Colonel Sebastian Moran can't possibly be deadlier than the Taliban.

 

* * *

He should be able to hear footsteps on the stairs, but there's nothing. They're very good. Or did he imagine that sound below? No, there it is, the creak on the tenth stair. Pre-Sherlock, he would have known only that one or two of his stairs creaked. Post-Sherlock, he knows that the tenth stair creaks low no matter where you put your weight, whereas the eleventh stair creaks – higher – only if you step in the middle. The fourth creaks only on humid days.

There's no more sound from the tenth stair, but you wouldn't expect the second person to make the same mistake as the first.

They've reached the top of the stairs. There's just the slightest shadow across the crack of light at the bottom of the door. And another. Two people, probably. So one will approach the door to the kitchen and the other the living room.

John counts silently and then spins to the left, kicking through the door to the landing and firing before he knows what's on the other side. He sees the woman's eyes go wide as her body jerks and falls back and partway down the stairs. He pulls back into the corner in the kitchen and listens to the footsteps approaching through the living room. The mannequin sways just slightly, disturbed by the movement of the person behind it. John throws himself around the corner to the left, running through the landing. Pain sears through his right leg. Real bullets this time; they might still be intent on taking him alive but they'll shoot his legs off if they have to. Somewhere in the back of his mind he's relieved; bullets, he understands.

He grits his teeth and ignores the pain in his leg. Once, he loaded several wounded soldiers into a truck and had started treating them before he realized how badly he'd been shot.

In the landing, he sidles against the wall toward the door to the living room. It's dead silent in there.

John waits.

 

* * *

A hit on the right thigh. He'd aimed for the knee, hoping to pin him to the floor, but the thigh is a decent start and it's more than a flesh wound. Sebastian wishes he could switch to the tranquilizer, but the man already took out his last soldier, so he's sticking to bullets for now.

He waits in silence.

If Jim were here, he'd be purring right now, driving his quarry mad with taunts and flirtations. Or he'd be bursting into song. Or reciting riddles. Or who knows. Doing something unexpected.

Sebastian has always been content to lie in ambush; he's good at it. He's brought down many men through his ability to stay perfectly still until the moment is right. It's so simple, and yet the simplest truths are often the most difficult and the most profound. Stillness comes easily to Sebastian and it's what works. It's expected.

He uncoils and springs from the kitchen and through the living room, firing and he leaps through the door. He sees Watson's left shoulder snap back and thinks he hit it, but in the same moment he feels the impact on his own shoulder, then on his chest, then the familiar searing pain ripping through the left side of his body and he's flying backwards into the floor. He has no idea where the third bullet hits, only that everything is falling away, walls, ceiling, light fixture, John Watson's face are falling away like dominoes and being replaced by darkness tunneling in and the last thing he thinks is, funny, I thought it would hurt so much more.


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock has never run so fast. He leaps over one body in the doorway, a second on the stairs, and a third on the landing. None of them are John. He swings himself through the doorway and exhales a great, melting, shaking, sigh of relief. John is sitting on the sofa, smiling weakly at him. Smiling.

"You've been shot." Sherlock says sharply, and jabs his finger at John accusatorily. "You're  _bleeding."_

"Yeah," John replies. "Good deduction there."

Sherlock frowns at the tremor in John's voice and drops to his knees next to the sofa to inspect his left shoulder. John shrugs him off. "Nah, that one's just a scratch. Can you believe he clipped my left bloody shoulder though? And they say lightning never strikes twice." He nods towards his right leg. "That one's a bit more nuisance."

Sherlock quickly scoots over to John's other side to take a closer look.

"I guess that limp won't be psychosomatic now," John grimaces.

"Oh do shut up," Sherlock snaps. "It will heal just fine. Don't be so dramatic." He grabs hold of the trouser fabric where the bullet tore through it and pulls it apart.

"Ripping my clothes off again, Sherlock?" John chuckles faintly, but he's sweating and his whole body is starting to shake. "Don't you know people will talk?"

"I'll be terribly disappointed if they don't." Sherlock's mouth half-curls in a crooked smile. Then he continues to smile because the wound is deep, he's not at all sure that it will heal just fine, and he doesn't want John to see his worry.

"Sherlock, don't worry," John soothes. Damn him. "At least I'm not knocked out with a dart like an elephant on the savannah."

Sherlock's smile is genuine again. "Your phone, John?"

John jerks his chin toward his left pocket. Sherlock finds his mobile there and checks the messages.

_Reply immediately. Not optional._

_MH_

* * *

Sherlock looks up from the phone with a sigh. "Mycroft's on his way." John doesn't miss the flash of relief on his face, just before the expression of intense irritation.

It's only moments later that four special forces in full body armor come bounding up the steps, scanning their semiautomatics back and forth. John and Sherlock look up absently as they sweep the flat. "All clear," one of them crackles on a radio, and they cascade back down the stairs.

Then there's a woman's voice, clipped and professional, coming from below. "Nathan McMann. Former Marine, court-martialed 2008, assaults, homicides, fugitive. Two more have been apprehended on side streets, awaiting your recommendation. Another body across the street." The voice, and two sets of footsteps, climb the stairs. There's creaky number ten. "Kamala Haque. Drug-trafficking, kidnap, homicides, fugitive." The feet pause just outside the living room door.

"Of course," lilts Mycroft's voice. "The Ex-Colonel Sebastian Moran." He glides into the living room and raises an eyebrow at the two men there. "You've bagged Moran, Sherlock."

John's eyebrows shoot up. He glances over at Sherlock, whose disdainful expression implies he knew the name attached to that body all along. John knows he didn't. Sherlock says nothing, but tilts his head toward John.

"Ah." Mycroft inclines his head towards John and his voice actually suggests respect. "He came for you personally. You must have made quite an impression on him."

"I believe I did, yeah. Rather permanent one." The adrenaline is fading and the pain is coming over him in waves now.

Mycroft manages a tight smile. "You need to go to hospital, John. The ambulance is on its way. Sherlock, you will come with me." John feels his heart clench for a moment. Not ready for this, not just yet. He glances up quickly at Sherlock and sees the same tension in his face before they both look away.

"I see," Mycroft muses. "Well, then. Sherlock, go with John. I suppose I can see to it that you're not arrested for tonight, at least, provided that you do not leave the hospital. I've been working on your case,  _naturally_ , but it's far from settled. We can discuss your debt to society in the morning." A siren approaches. Mycroft nods at them again and turns to leave.

John can just barely hear him, as he descends the stairs, saying, "Anthea. Restore previous surveillance levels for Holmes and Watson." And the reply, "Already done."

A few minutes later, John's on a stretcher and Sherlock is climbing into the ambulance next to him. They both have orange shock blankets. The last drops of adrenaline are dissipating and the pain is in tsunamis. Everything is going blurry and gray.

"Sherlock," John murmurs. "I'm about to pass out."

"Yes, of course," Sherlock rumbles. "That's alright, isn't it? I'm not supposed to keep you awake?"

"No, it's fine. Don't worry. Just… be there when I wake up, will you?"

He feels a firm hand on his good arm. "Try not to be an idiot, John. Where else would I be?"

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover Art: Three Stories to an Empty House](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5148938) by [Trishkafibble](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trishkafibble/pseuds/Trishkafibble)




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